The Truth of the Matter
by newsbians
Summary: Jack finally tells Davey all of his secrets.


Dear Davey,

Katherine is forcing me to write this letter. In fact, she is standing directly over my shoulder and monitoring the words I write, to ensure that they form proper sentences. (Which, by the way, is intrusive!) However, she made a very good point while yelling at me to sit down and get it all out there: I need to pull my head out of my ass. So I am, I'm finally going to do what I swore I would do about five years ago, and tell you the truth. The whole truth.

Spanish is my first language. Spot taught me how to drive stick shift a whole year before we met. I know how to tie a bowtie. I'm never calling for your roommate's advice on anything when he's conveniently not there. And I definitely know how to take a screenshot on a laptop, I promise.

You were just… the new kid in Señora G's class, who helped me with tense verbs once and offered to tutor me and who was I to say no? I wasn't going to tell the cute boy the truth, that I was just having an off day, not when there was the opportunity to hang out with him every Monday night from six to seven. Especially not when that same boy saw me staring at the stick at his console with exasperation that he took as confusion the first time I got into his car. He was so nice as to offer me little lessons on our way to the library on how to drive his ancient bright red Honda Civic, which evolved to Saturday driving lessons, where I was tongue tied for the first time in my life when he put his hand over mine to guide it in the right direction. So I let him teach me something I already knew. But these lessons meant that we were talking now, talking about who we were as people, and I learned that he had a fearless older sister and silly younger brother that he loved dearly, a kind mother and father that invited me in on rainy days so I wouldn't have to stand on the porch waiting for him to grab a textbook or pencil case. He soon knew that I loved to draw and had a very cool foster mom and sibling that also went to the school and was the president of like, everything, including the Pride Club.

I'll never forget how beautiful he looked, framed by street lights, blushing in the dusk, slipping it into the conversation that he knew Spot Conlon, every gay kid at the school did. My heart beat so fast that I was afraid he would hear it, thumping straight out of my chest and into his hands. As I cracked a joke about how every bi kid knew him too, especially when he was their brother, I watched him sigh in relief. And at the end of the night, he gave me his number, written on the corner of a worksheet we had been muddling through and torn neatly off the edge. And if he didn't know that I did a heel click walking toward my room, that was perfectly fine.

So I started to call the boy, for Spanish help and dropping cheesy pickup lines, and we became friends. Eating lunch together, swapping math homework for drawings of his eyes, hair, his outfit, anything he requested. I did it all with a more than willing heart. Our groups meshed, the baseball boys suddenly better friends with the mathletes than the football players. We hung out more often, doing more than just studying in the library. He liked going to coffee shops where they gave you your drink in a real mug. I liked sitting on swings in parks. We both liked kicking soccer balls around. Things started to work really well between us.

Until I met his sister, Sarah. She was really pretty but looked unnervingly like him. I guess that's why I fell for her so fast, because the knowledge that he could never like me the way I did haunted me and she was a perfect substitute. So we dated for a while and soon the boy stopped talking to me, he began taking other boys to cafes and libraries. We would smile at each other in the halls but wouldn't say hello when I came to his house, because we both knew the truth. I just wasn't there for him anymore. On February 14th I got to ask his sister to prom and watch him walk away, furiously swiping at tears I didn't know the cause of. I didn't follow him. I was instead instructed what color I should make sure my bowtie was.

The night of prom, he answered the door in knee-high Harry Potter socks, boxers with tweety bird on them, and a fuzzy sweater. I was so desperate to have another conversation with him that I did what any careless person would do: lie. I asked for help putting my mint green bowtie on, so he sighed and led me to his room, where he forced me to watch him do it on himself once in the mirror and copy it. I let my hands fumble just to see his half-smile. Standing up and facing me, two inches away, his nimble fingers created a perfect bow around my neck. I held my breath at that moment, making a promise to myself while staring at an ink stain on his right thumb. I would tell him one day how I felt, how lucky I was to know him, how lucky I was that he chose me of all people. But for that moment, I had to take his sister to prom. And leave him alone, knee socks, boxers, a sweater, and all.

The next time I got to talk to him wasn't talking at all, but yelling, dangerous tones of anger, furious at me for breaking his sister's heart. I sat there and let him scream at me because I knew the second he stopped he would be gone, for good, and I didn't know if I could take that. I broke Sarah's heart because he broke mine. He called me names, he threatened me, gave me empty words, but he still looked me in the eyes. And that was all I needed.

He stared at me with a blank expression when I asked him for help on the conjugation of estar, almost seven months later. He told me the answer, straight off the bat, without trying to help me through it. I'm still not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't for him to drop a note on the corner of my desk at the end of class, reading: Study group. Six o'clock. Monday. Be there if you need help, I guess.

So just like that, we were talking to each other again. He kept his distance, hung out with his soccer buddies, and his parents didn't invite me in anymore. I heard his sister got into some amazing school and was ruling the Upper East Side, just like she said she would. Just like she deserved. And he, by some miracle had gotten into the same school as me. And he didn't even seem mad about it. When I had told him, a small smile twitched onto his face and he mentioned something about roommates.

For the first time in a long time, I felt hope that the boy would let me back in.

We didn't end up being roommates but might as well have been. Spending half the nights passed out on top of each other's comforters, becoming fast friends with his roommate, a spunky boy named Race with a sharp tongue, helping each other with the classes we were taking, ensuring that we were getting enough food and sleep. Spending long hours of conversation on the phone because I called at times when I knew Race was at work. My feet up in the air, staring at my ceiling like a teenage girl. College felt more natural than high school ever did, and it was all because of him.

Then one week, he got really sick. Like, throwing up whenever he tried to open his mouth, sick. I came by as often as I could to make sure he wasn't overheating, getting enough water, drowning in his own sick. I was miserable, having to go about my days without my other half to talk to. I could only send texts and hope that he would respond when he was coherent. Then, I checked my grades randomly. My grade in Spanish had dropped, and that's when I finally realized. I was okay on my own, but he made me so much better. It didn't matter that I knew how to drive stick, because he taught me how to do it well. I could tie a bowtie, but he made me practice until mine were perfect. Jack Kelly is an okay person, but Davey Jacobs completes him.

So I came to Kath with all of this… stuff and she basically laughed in my face. Apparently, everyone knows. I'm pretty transparent. I'm hoping you know too so this letter isn't a gigantic shock.

So she yelled a tiny bit about how thick I am sometimes, and then gave me a piece of paper and told me to start writing. This isn't exactly a love letter, just a documentation of how I've felt for all these years. I'll write you love letters if you want them. I'll write them in long, excruciating detail about how amazing the color of your eyes are, or how much I've wanted to kiss you since I heard you say my name for the first time, or about the little patch of skin right where your shirt rides up when you stretch out on my bed. I'll write about all of that, but I needed to tell you the truth first.

I need you. So badly, or else I'll die. And not in a gross way, but in the way that my life sucked so badly when you didn't talk to me for all that time. In the way that sometimes I almost miss my eight am class but your good morning calls get me out of bed. In the way that I like you, Davey. So much. So much that I'll just burst from inside to out.

So there it is. I'm just going to leave this taped on your door, and feel free to respond, or don't, it doesn't matter. (Yes it does. Please respond. It doesn't have to be positive, I just need you to say something.)

I really like you,

Jack

Jack,

I love you. So, so, so, so, so much. Please come here and let me kiss you and hold you and tell how madly in love I am with you. God, I love you.

Yours,

Davey.


End file.
